One elevator, two stalkers, three minutes, and four quarters
Once upon a time, years ago, in a foreign land—Arizona, Scottsdale to be exact—my friend, Ruby and I believed in the power of words and dove head first into the Romance Writers of America national conference.
First, the backstory. I first met Ruby (her name has been changed to protect her innocence) at the Georgia Romance Writers monthly meeting in Atlanta. We bonded over her spitfireness (yes the word works) and my lack of it. What a genesis for a great book? Two polar opposites who find love based on the centuries-old formula of boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl, boy-gets-girl-back. Two boys, two girls. GENIUS. We laughed, we wrote, and we dreamed of becoming romance writers. Oh, the glory of it all. The romance of it all.
After months and months of attending the Georgia meetings, we decided to reach for the stars at the national conference. We booked our tickets, made our reservations, and believed we’d be discovered in a sea of like-minded women who all hoped for the same outcome. The break-out sessions, encouraging; the guest speakers, inspiring; the pitch with the editors, scary as hell and pitiful. I began rethinking this line of work.
Like any good writer will tell you, the most unexpected places yield the greatest stories. So, we took the opportunity investigate the pool area for those ideas. If we couldn’t find inspiration among the hundreds of women inside the conference room, by golly we’d sit by the pool until the lightning bolt struck.
Being able to handle very little Arizona sun, we packed up and searched for the elevator. Who in their right mind would take the stairs in this heat? Inside the elevator, published author Lisa Gardner, one of the main reasons I wanted to attend this event. Her work sucked me in like no other. And yes, her novels were transcending the romance genre toward the pure-evil thriller, but she mastered the art of plot lines.
Ruby and I went giddy, and we said our hellos. Words exchanged focusing on how wonderful and talented she was, and we were mere wannbes. Suddenly, she started rifling through her bag, and sigh escaped. “No quarters for the laundry.” Something to that effect, and as fast as rain, I jumped at the chance to give Lisa Gardner my quarters.
Having none on my body, I told her to stay put. When the car reached my floor, I jumped out, told Ruby to hold the OPEN DOOR button, ran to the room and prayed I was as good as my word. Score, quarters on the bedside table. I rushed back to the elevator and proudly deposited them in her hands.
That was my brush with fame. One that still to this day makes me smile.
The story did not end there. Months later when I was in need of a job, I reached out to her, asked her to read part of a manuscript, and offer a recommendation. She did which still totally blows my mind. I’m not sure if she remembers the letter of recommendation she wrote, but I still hold it as one of my prized possessions. I read it often and hope I’m as good as her words.
Last week, I posted on Instagram a rainy-day read of one of her books, “Right Behind You.” She shared the post, and always seeing an opportunity, I reminded her of the quarters. She remembered how I saved her daughter from wearing dirty clothes. And, she offered a signed book. Her latest, “Still See You Everywhere.”
My library holds a collection of Gardner’s works. Of all the ones I have, this is my favorite.
Never doubt the power of quarters.
